The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(65)

Magnus sat, his legs suddenly unable to support his weight. “How?” he said tonelessly. “I made sure …” He let his voice fall off, unable to say the words. The horror of thinking about them was enough. He cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded strained. “None of us carry anything on missions that could identify us. Gordon was careful. He wouldn’t have made that kind of mistake.”

“He didn’t,” Sir Neil responded. “But were either of you aware that he had a mark on his skin from birth?”

Ah hell. He felt ill.

“Aye,” MacGregor said grimly. “It was on his ankle.”

Sir Neil nodded. “Aye, well apparently it was a common mark in his family. His grandfather had one as well—as did his uncle Sir Adam.”

The nausea grew worse. Magnus didn’t want to believe that it could all have been for nothing. The nightmares of his dreams had just found daylight. “If they know the truth, then why haven’t we heard anything about it?”

Bruce held up the missive. “My source says they are keeping it quiet for now until they can figure out how best to make use of the information. We were fortunate to learn of it at all.”

“How did you learn of it?”

Bruce shrugged. “It isn’t important, but I have no doubt as to its truth.”

It wasn’t the first time the king had received a message from a secret source. The spy must be trusted and important for the king not to share his identity with the members of the Guard. Magnus and some of the other guardsmen speculated that it might be De Monthermer, who’d helped the king before in the early days of his kingship. But in the end, the identity of the spy didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the king trusted the information.

God, it was true! Gordon had been unmasked.

If the English knew about Gordon, it wouldn’t take long for the information to lead them to Helen. The potential threat looming since Gordon’s death had just become real. Everything Magnus had done to protect her hadn’t been enough. She was in danger anyway.

The king’s gaze was not without sympathy. “It’s probably nothing to worry about. But in light of this new information, we must take precautions.”

Magnus hardened his resolve, but he knew he had no choice. It probably wasn’t good enough. “Lady Helen must accompany us on the progress as your healer.”

There was nothing else he could do. Everything had just changed. He wasn’t going to be able to walk away. He’d made a promise to protect her.

He wished to hell that was all there was to it. But Magnus knew his promise to Gordon had very little to do with the fierce emotion driving him right now. The urge to protect, the fear from the thought of her being in danger—those emotions stemmed from a vicinity much nearer his heart.

The realization that Helen was in danger stripped him of all his carefully constructed walls of delusion and forced him to admit the truth. His feelings weren’t as dead as he wanted them to be. His feelings weren’t dead at all.

He might not want to love her, and God knew it was wrong of him to do so, but heaven help him, he still did.

It was late when Helen returned to the castle. Though the midsummer days were long, the last breath of daylight was flickering over the horizon.

She’d stayed longer than she had expected. But after she’d tended the arm of the fletcher’s son, who’d broken it when he fell out of a tree he’d been climbing, the family had been so grateful, they insisted she stay to eat something with them.

In addition to the five-year-old tree-climber Tommy, the fletcher had seven more children, ranging in age from sixteen months to four and ten. Once their awe at having “the lady” in their home had worn off, they’d bombarded her with questions and enchanted her with their songs; she’d lost track of time. If only she’d thought to ask for a torch before she left.

She hurried through the forest, wondering whether the king had made his decision yet. Helen had approached the king first thing in the morning with the possibility of her accompanying them on the royal progress as his healer. She’d been encouraged by his initial response—he’d seemed quite amenable to the idea—but she knew there would be resistance from at least one of his men.

She bit her lip, acknowledging that avoiding that particular Highlander might have something to do with her lingering at the fletcher’s hearth.

But she’d lingered too long. The darker it grew, the faster her pulse raced. The forest wasn’t her favorite place at night.

She blinked, as if that would make her be able to see better. There were so many shadows.

She jumped at a rustling toss of leaves behind her. And so many noises.

She was being silly. There was nothing to be scared of—

She yelped when something darted across the path in front of her. A squirrel. At least she hoped it was a squirrel and not a rat. Oh God. She ran her hands over her arms; her flesh had started to crawl.

She hurried her step, stumbling forward when her foot landed awkwardly on a rock. She went down hard, crying out when her hands made harsh contact with the forest floor. Her chin followed a moment later.

Stunned, the breath jarred from her lungs, it took her a moment to realize she was all right. After brushing herself off as best she could, she stood. Her ankle was tender, but fortunately, she was able to walk.

Feeling more than a little foolish, she proceeded at a far more cautious pace and did her best to ignore her scary surroundings.